At about 5 and a half months postpartum, I'm now at a weight lower than my pre-pregnancy weight. In fact, by eating healthier and exercising more, I've lost 10 pounds in about 5 weeks. I'm complimented and congratulated on my accomplishment of getting my body healthier again. And yes, I feel really good myself. I love the time spent stretching and balancing in yoga. The time spent strengthening my muscles in Pilates. The time spent outside walking with Chase (and Ryan). But there's a small part of me that resents it all.
If I had been caring for a baby these past 5 and a half months would I be here in this healthier place right now? Or would I still be struggling to lose the "baby weight?" As I struggled to find "purpose" after Ryan died, I found it in caring for myself. And I can't help but think if Ryan were here that he would have been the priority and I would have been just another mom struggling with my weight.
In hindsight, I hope I'd be the mom who wouldn't give two shits about how much I weigh, or the extra bits of fat here and there. I hope I'd be the mom who sees these things as badges of honour earned by being a mom. By giving life. I hope I'd be the mom who wouldn't complain about it because I have a baby to snuggle and care for. Or maybe just be the mom who quietly tries to get myself healthy again, because complaining about it is a slap in the face to every mom who couldn't bring her baby home. Or every mom who wants to get pregnant and earn those extra pounds, but can't.
Yes, I'm proud of myself for getting fitter again. For taking care of myself. For being healthy. But I'm proud of myself, too, for what I've learned. For the extra bit of sensitivity I've gained. I'm proud to know that when I become a mom to a baby on this earth, that hopefully I'll be more accepting of the challenges, knowing honestly what the alternative could be.